Drown and Lost
by SerafynaVilkas
Summary: After years of abuse at the hands of Vernon and Dudley, and neglect from Petunia, Harry is withdrawn and afraid of all contact with others – be it physical or emotional. To expect otherwise from the 11-year-old child would be unfair, and the revelation of who he really is – and the real death of his parents – only pushes the boy further into his shell...


**Prologue:**

Pain…. He was always in pain these days, but he had learned long ago to block it out, to ignore it and think of other things whilst his 'dear uncle' Vernon beat him senseless and bloody while his 'loving aunt' Petunia looked on in disgust and his cousin Dudley jeered at his helplessness. "You pathetic freak! If it were up to me, you'd be dead long ago, you worthless piece of trash!"

Kicks and punches punctuated the yells, and Harry tried his best to keep his whimpers silent; after all, it would only increase his 'punishment'. "You ungrateful brat! After all that we have done for you! Put a roof over your head, fed you, clothed you, and this is how you repay us? By wasting food? Your kind are nothing but freakish lowlifes!" _'Again…'_ Harry thought, screwing his eyes shut to keep tears at bay, _'What does he mean by "my kind"?'_ The thought soon disappeared from the nine-year-olds' head as a foot connected with his jaw; he was sure it had been broken again. A meaty hand reached down and yanked up a handful of raven-black hair, the action wrenching a small cry from the barely-conscious boy.

"Well, boy? Look at me when I speak to you!" Vernon spat, flecks of foam sticking to his walrus-like moustache, making his purple face look even worse. At the sight of tears in Harry's eyes, Vernon made a 'tch' sound before dragging the boy over to the hallway and shoving him into the cupboard located under the stairway, locking it for good measure. "You ungrateful whelp, until you have learned your lesson you can stay in there without food." His uncle growled out. Harry merely curled up on the small mattress there, trying his best to stem the now-flowing tears as he shook in pain. It was always like this, the Dursleys trying to find every excuse they could to beat him, starve him, lock him up like the animal they made him be. After some time – Harry only knew hours had passed by the now-dark cupboard and the quietness of the house – he uncurled and lifted his oversized shirt, wincing at the purple-black bruise covering his entire torso and the numerous cuts bleeding ruby-red drops of blood. He sighed, bright emerald eyes closing as he concentrated on the house; Vernon and Dudley's snoring coming from upstairs confirming that it was quite late into the night.

The beaten child shifted around to press his hands to the cupboard door where he knew the latch for the lock was and focused, smiling softly when he heard the soft 'click'. Harry didn't know why he could do the things he could, things such as finding himself on the school roof to escape his cousin and his gang, re-growing his hair after Aunt Petunia shaved him bald, and unlocking his cupboard door; he didn't particularly mind, either, as it allowed him to escape his confines at night to tend to his injuries and eat unknown to his relatives. Munching on a piece of bread, as that was all his stomach could take, he ran cold water in the sink and soaked a small towel before applying it to his chest, hissing air as it touched the heated flesh. _'They always do this to me. I doubt my mum and dad wanted me to come here, but I can't do anything about it. And Uncle Vernon's right; I'd be dead if it weren't for the Dursleys.'_

After cleaning up the worst of the cuts, Harry made his way back to his cupboard, making sure to re-lock the latch lest he get into more trouble. Sighing dejectedly, he lay down on his side, knowing that whatever sleep he got would be punctured with the nightmares that visited him constantly; flashes of green, a menacing laugh, a woman's screams were always prevalent, but there were times that he would find his dream-self running, always running down a hall while the voices of his relatives jeered at him. It would seem, to the nine-year-old, that even in his dreams he would find no solace; he figured it was his fate to always suffer at the hands of others.


End file.
